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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27624920">so much love the whole thing feels like a lie</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/whalersandsailors/pseuds/whalersandsailors'>whalersandsailors</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Terror (TV 2018)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Accidental Voyeurism, Blow Jobs, Come Swallowing, Coming In Pants, During Canon, Jealousy, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Dynamics, Sexual Tension, Shame Solomon Tozer Power Hour, Size Difference, Watersports</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 16:49:09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,817</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27624920</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/whalersandsailors/pseuds/whalersandsailors</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When Tozer witnesses a sexual liaison in the orlop, he finds himself entrenched in a growing obsession with a certain caulker's mate.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Cornelius Hickey/Sgt Solomon Tozer, William Gibson/Cornelius Hickey</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Hickeyshipping 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>so much love the whole thing feels like a lie</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/TomBowline/gifts">TomBowline</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>[<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cKmC87fXwdI">title from here</a>]</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>The orlop is hardly his idea of a pleasant place to be, but the longer the ships are iced in, the more restless Tozer has become. He is desperate for any movement, as though he were walking the length of a prison cell, and on watch, he paces the deck for more than warmth while he scours the white nothing for any demons dressed as bears. Today, he is spared the exposure on deck. Lieutenant Hodgson has tasked him with fetching canvas from the sail room to patch a hole in the tent on deck. It is a task even the simplest among them could do, but Tozer’s leg had been bouncing for the better half of an hour when he heard Hodgson complain of the tear, and he all but leapt to his feet to volunteer his help.</p><p>He carries a lantern, but the darkness below is inky. The light curves against the darkness as though it were a living thing. Tozer believes he could reach forward and press his palm against the shadow, fitting his hand against the breathing behemoth. </p><p>He thinks better of the notion and holds the lantern close to his chest. </p><p>A groan tiptoes from deep within the orlop. Although faint, the sound is loud enough to startle, and Tozer nearly drops the lantern when he winces. </p><p>‘The ice,’ he consoles himself, stomping around to mask his private embarrassment. 'Only the ice.'</p><p>There it is again, the sound: a low croon, too whispery for ship’s wood, too long for footsteps on the decks above. Like the settling of a house, the ship breathes in and out, and for a terrifying moment, Tozer intimately knows that the planks underfoot and overhead are older than he, and he feels his time borrowed in the bowels of this repatriated war vessel, perhaps something to be feared even more than a godless bear devouring their men on the ice.</p><p>Uninterested in the ships' many ghosts, he decides to hurry, find the canvas, and leave.</p><p>Lest there be more than rats burrowing into through the ice and into the side of the bulkhead.</p><p>When he reaches the sail room, he hears the sound again. The more he hears it, the more he wants to pinpoint its source, if anything to erase his childish fear that it is some spirit come to life, waiting to ambush any sailor it catches alone. He swallows, one hand on the lantern, the other clenching around empty air, having left his gun on the lower deck.</p><p>‘It is only the ice, and you’re quivering in your boots like a boy.’ He bites the inside of his cheek and ventures farther into the darkness before he can lose his nerve.</p><p>Tozer pauses when he hears another sigh. He shifts his weight onto his toes, his calves straining as he creeps forward. He lowers the lantern and squints into the passageway before him, but the shadow is liquid, revealing no secrets.</p><p>He opens the lantern and extinguishes the light.</p><p>Following his own puff of air is another gasp—human enough to make gooseflesh prickle up his arms. The noises are louder now, more frequent, and as Tozer’s eyes adjust, he moves forward. He finds the edge of a barrel and begins circling around it. He stops when he hears the telltale rustle of cloth, like fabric hitting the floor. He peers around the barrel, and he sees, though it takes a moment to understand.</p><p>The two men have fit themselves in a space no wider than a cupboard. They lie on a woolen coat, their shapes blending into the shadows around them. A jacket lies abandoned a few feet away. They have neither lantern nor candle, and were it not for the alabaster glow of their pale skin, they would be as blind men groping in the darkness for any purchase of mouth or hip.</p><p>The sighs morph into grunts, and Tozer realizes with a stab of shame that the men are fucking. Rutting in the dark among the musk and mold, no better than dogs humping in a Portsmouth alley.</p><p>Tozer knows he should walk away before he sees anything that might implicate himself or the yet-unidentified pair.</p><p>He doesn’t blame the <em>want</em> of it. The sea has a way of making lonely men find their fellow crewmates as appealing as sweethearts. His own gaze has strayed to some of the prettier boys on board, even to his own lads with their lean bodies wrapped beautifully in red wool like a gift. But lavishing in phantasy while frigging oneself in his hammock is one thing; lovers whisking themselves to the orlop is another.</p><p>He turns to leave but stops when one of them smothers a sob. His stomach clenches, and he worries for a damning moment that they are not <em>lovers </em>but that someone is being hurt, a boy being taken advantage of. Should he ignore this, he would be abusing his position as Marine sergeant. He grits his teeth and edges closer, mourning the absence of his gun again.</p><p>The man on top stops moving. Tozer can just make out the fringe of chin-length hair slipping from behind his ear and obscuring his face.</p><p>“Are you well, Billy?” the man whispers.</p><p>There’s an answer between sniffles. “Yes, it’s fine. Please, don’t…”</p><p>He doesn’t finish the sentence, and the man on top strokes a hand down Billy’s flank. Tozer hears the whisper of a kiss, followed by a sigh. They begin moving again, and the man wraps his arm around Billy’s narrow shoulders. The leverage makes him lean back, and for a chilling second, his eyes meet Tozer’s.</p><p>Tozer nearly falls back onto his rear. Instead, he freezes like a spooked rabbit.</p><p>The man can’t see him. Not in the darkness. That’s impossible.</p><p>But he smiles like he can.</p><p>Slowly, he lowers himself onto Billy, his chest pressed to Billy’s back. He presses an open-mouthed kiss on Billy’s neck, his eyes never leaving Tozer.</p><p>He recognizes him now. The caulker’s mate, Cornelius Hickey. A waif of a man who doesn’t even reach Tozer’s shoulder. Tozer has paid him no mind, aside from his casual observance of Hickey’s fire-red hair, the occasional snide remarks, and eyes much too sharp and watchful for a petty officer. It doesn’t surprise Tozer that the caulker’s mate would be an invert. Something about his self-assured air when he traded words over grog and gruel with the AB’s spoke to a practiced charisma, a man who with better means might have gone into politics.</p><p>Billy arches, a cry spilling from him. His head lifts, and Tozer briefly glimpses the bearded face of the steward Billy Gibson.</p><p>He understands with even more dread how carelessly Hickey must regard the Articles, if he pursued a man this close to the officers. Hickey claps a hand over Gibson’s eyes (‘not his mouth,’ Tozer notes with some wonder). But Gibson’s cry dissolves into a series of whimpers, so soft that Tozer barely hears him. Hickey is equally quiet, muffling a single moan in the back of Gibson’s waistcoat. He finally looks away from Tozer, and Tozer’s good sense growls that it is time to leave. He crawls back the way he came, his original errand to the orlop long forgotten. He’ll come up with some excuse for the lieutenant and get his duty owing, more time spent on deck in the cold and dark, enough to clear his head of the lurid vision of Hickey and the steward every time he blinks.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>A week passes.</p><p>Tozer avoids Hickey, the scene between the caulker’s mate and Gibson branded in his mind. He allows himself a single indulgence—lazily fondling himself under the blanket in his hammock to the image of ecstasy on Hickey’s face when he had reached his peak.</p><p>In defiance to Tozer’s hesitance, Hickey frequently situates himself in his path. He always has a smile on his face, a deferential nod that comes a few seconds delayed, and a sanguine <em>hello, sergeant </em>made all the more sickening when Tozer has no choice but to squeeze by Hickey in the narrow passageway.</p><p>To think that two years have passed since Tozer has known the comfort of sharing a bed or a kiss. Hell, even something as impersonal as a quick romp in a rented room sounds heavenly. Tozer has never been picky in his bed partners, and as time goes on, the more his eye strays to Mr Hickey as he tries to recreate the memory of his bare shoulders, his muffled moans, his long-fingered hand helping to pull Gibson off.</p><p>Once, Tozer forgets himself, and Hickey catches him staring. With a barely-there smile clinging to his face, he makes a point of crossing the fo’c’sle to ask the captain’s steward if he <em>might tell me where Mr Gibson is. He’s promised to lend me a book of prayers.</em></p><p>Mr Jopson doesn’t even look at Hickey when he makes a dismissive gesture toward the pantry, and he continues his hurried path toward the wardroom. The stunt had its desired effect on Tozer however, and before Hickey can see the ferocious scowl on his face, he marches to the sickbay to check on Private Wilkes’ recovery from a fall on the ice.</p><p>Another week passes. Hickey tests his boundaries.</p><p>During the changing of the watch, Tozer stands at the base of the ladder as Hickey climbs down. He’s breathing hard, his cheeks ruddy and flushed. His eyes train on Tozer’s face before they dart to Gibson. The steward stands at attention a few paces away, holding a tray of rum for the men. Hickey adopts an easy smile and removes his welsh wig. He keeps the hat clutched to his chest as he brushes past Tozer, his free hand dangling at his hip. The back of his knuckles deliberately graze the front of Tozer’s slops with just enough pressure that Tozer’s cock twitches at the sensation. For a split second, he thinks he has imagined it, except there is too much victory in Hickey’s voice as he loudly and happily thanks Gibson for the drink.</p><p>Tozer grits his teeth and climbs. Blood rushes to his face from far more than the shock of air, and he stomps along the deck toward the bow with more force than necessary as his cock shrivels from the cold and an unwanted stab of jealousy.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Another week. More dancing. More posturing. Some of the danger leaves Hickey’s eyes. Some of the trepidation slithers from Tozer’s stomach.</p><p>Against his better judgment, he copies Hickey’s tactics; slinking closer to him during shared watches, straining to overhear whispered exchanges between him and Mr Gibson, sitting at tables close to the oddly popular Hickey, easily blending into the crowd of men hotly debating at Hickey’s table while Tozer has his back turned to the squabble, preferring instead the company of his fellow Marines.</p><p>There are other such debates and meetings that happen between hammocks, between bowed heads in the fo’c’sle, in stolen snatches in the orlop. Hickey ingratiates himself to many and has honed a talent of dripping seditious nonsense into the younger lads’ ears. He’s a sea lawyer if Tozer’s ever seen one before, nothing but trouble to come, and the longer Tozer watches this occur, the more he begins to regret not reporting his behavior to the captain or to Lieutenant Little.</p><p>But after he’s pulled himself off in his hammock for the third time that week—to the familiar phantasy of pale skin and red hair—he knows that if he were to report Hickey for that infraction, he would have to report himself as well.</p><p>Another week. Something changes. Tozer knows not what.</p><p>Gibson looks haunted. He stays in officer country as long as he is able, beyond his duty. Hickey smiles, but the grind of his teeth is obvious through the skin of his cheek. Have they rowed? That seems unlike the steward, but one afternoon, he sees Tozer staring. Much to his surprise, Gibson scowls at him before disappearing up the passageway toward the officers’ cabins.</p><p>Tozer thinks of nothing else during the dogwatch, deaf to any attempted conversation from Private Daly. It is not until the bell tolls that the fog lifts from around his head. He clambers through the hatch, his thoughts shifting to warm food and a drink and a long night’s sleep until he repeats the whole charade in the morning. Perhaps he can wrangle Heather into a game of cards.</p><p>“Uneventful watch, sergeant?”</p><p>The cup of rum sits on Tozer’s bottom lip as he looks up. It is not Mr Gibson or Mr Genge standing before him. Not even Mr Armitage who occasionally doles out the drinks for men coming off watch. No, Tozer looks up to see Hickey smiling at him. He grunts an answer and downs his rum in a single gulp. He shuffles away, intent on removing his slops and spending a few blissful, solitary minutes in the privy.</p><p>However, his hopes for a peaceful evening are dashed when Hickey finishes handing out the rum. He dumps the tray on a table by the stove before falling in step alongside Tozer.</p><p>“Sergeant, if I may borrow you for a moment…”</p><p>“You may not.”</p><p>Hickey is undeterred. “I need help fetching tins for tomorrow’s dinner, and it is more than a one-man job, I’m afraid.”</p><p>“Then ask Manson or Strong.”</p><p>Dropping his voice, Hickey hooks a finger around the edge of the white band crisscrossing Tozer’s slops, “I’d rather have you, sergeant.”</p><p>The pressure between Tozer’s legs is immediate, and he doesn’t trust himself to breathe, let alone entertain a response to Hickey’s invitation. He watches as Hickey plucks his hand away. He moves aft, slipping down the ladder with nimble grace. And, feeling less shame than he ought, Tozer follows like a pup brought to heel.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Was this a pretense to get me alone?”</p><p>Hickey’s grin curls, dimpling one cheek. “It certainly worked.”</p><p>Tozer frowns with more indignation than is his right, given how half his uniform lies on the barrel beside him. His unfed stomach and his unemptied bladder both complain at him, but his irritation wavers when Hickey pins him against the bulkhead of the slops room, one hand palming Tozer’s cock. He clenches his eyes shut when Hickey sinks his teeth into the curve of his jaw. He does not break skin, but the pressure is sharp enough to sting.</p><p>“I’m not accustomed to being watched, sergeant,” Hickey says, his lips moving along his jaw.</p><p>Tozer shudders, biting back a whine when Hickey removes his hand.</p><p>“Should I be flattered or concerned?” Hickey asks.</p><p>“Damn you,” Tozer snaps, squirming under Hickey’s knee.</p><p>Hickey laughs. He no longer attends to Tozer’s need, grabbing his wrist instead and directing Tozer’s hand to his own cock. The length of it is hard where it strains against the flap of his breeches.</p><p>“You had your chance to damn me before,” he chirps, grinding slowly into Tozer’s palm; “yet you didn’t.”</p><p>Tozer attempts to kiss him, if anything to shut him up. Hickey jerks his chin away. He tangles a hand into Tozer’s hair and yanks his head back. Tozer hisses at the pain needling his scalp, but Hickey placates him, loosening his hold and stroking the back of his head instead.</p><p>“I should have stopped you when I found you.” Tozer’s voice is hoarse, wilting the threat in his words.</p><p>“Oh, sergeant, you want this more desperately than I.”</p><p>Accompanying his words is another deliberate roll of his hips against Tozer’s hand, and after a couple purposeful tugs at his hair, Tozer understands and kneels.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Neither fully undress, and the only buttons Tozer loosens are the buttons on Hickey’s breeches. They have switched positions; Hickey against the barrel, Tozer with his back to the door. At some point, Tozer had hooked his forearms under Hickey’s slender thighs and hoisted him onto the edge of the barrel. The transition took only seconds, but Tozer allowed himself a sliver of self-satisfaction at Hickey’s sharp inhale, the slight widening of his eyes.</p><p>When Tozer returns to his knees, he presses his face against Hickey’s thigh. He can smell the musk of him, faint traces of sweat and salt. His mouth waters at the thought of tasting bare skin, and a thread rips when he rushes to unbutton the front flap. Hickey’s cock is as slender as he is, long and curved, the tip a sweet pink. His perch on the barrel gives Tozer easy access to it, and he drags his tongue along the underside. That earns him another gasp, and he smirks in spite of himself. Hickey bucks his hips forward when Tozer takes the head of his cock into his mouth, and Tozer plants his hands at Hickey’s waist to keep him still. In turn, Hickey clamps both his hands over Tozer’s wrists, both a captive and a captor.</p><p>Unable to touch himself, Tozer is sloppy as he moves on Hickey’s cock. He doesn’t care if his teeth grazes the sensitive skin every now and again, and Hickey doesn’t complain. Tozer’s neglected cock hangs heavy, trapped behind too many layers. He feels himself aching to the point of bursting, the sensation heightened by the nagging need to piss.</p><p>He tries to tug one of his hands free, but Hickey refuses to let go. His pants are faster, more frantic, as he tenses and squirms, rapidly approaching release. He flings a leg over Tozer’s shoulders, his hips jerking when Tozer picks up the pace.</p><p>Hickey’s cock springs from his mouth, and he whines as Tozer struggles to get his lips around it once more.</p><p>“This would be a mite easier,” Tozer growls, his nose buried in the auburn coils of hair beside Hickey’s cock, “if I had my fucking hands.”</p><p>A breathless laugh tumbles from Hickey. His head is still tipped back, resting against the bulkhead. Without opening his eyes, he lets go.</p><p>“The mouth on you,” he says without a shred of protest. “I’d rather feel that filthy tongue of yours than hear it.”</p><p>The last syllable of <em>hear it </em>pitches high in the back of Hickey’s throat when Tozer hooks a finger around the base of his cock and angles the tip back into his mouth. The pressure in his belly coils tighter and tighter, like the ice-fat ropes above deck, ready to snap at the barest provocation. Roughly, he rubs his cock through the front of his trousers. He hears a hiss, fingers carding through his hair and pulling.</p><p>“None of that, sergeant. Not yet.”</p><p>He looks up to see Hickey watching him. His eyes are heavy-lidded, and his mouth hangs open, a dazed smile playing about his lips.</p><p>Tozer might have followed Hickey on a leash, but triumph floods him as he now takes the helm. He removes his hand from himself and wraps his arm around Hickey’s trim waist, pulling him forward until all he can smell and taste is the man. Delaying his own satisfaction is exquisite torture. Anticipation floods him with every tiny moan he tugs out of Hickey, with every smirk that falls from his face when Tozer presses his tongue harder, when he goes a little deeper, when he pumps the base of Hickey’s cock faster.</p><p>The only warning he receives is a tightening of Hickey’s fingers in his hair before he comes. The leg on his back clamps down with extraordinary strength, and the weight on his back combined with the salt in his mouth is enough that his cock twitches. A second passes before all his restraint crumples. What starts as a trickle grows stronger until the wet warmth of his piss slides down one leg. He moans around Hickey’s cock and swallows, the sudden release of pressure in his groin as pleasurable as climax.</p><p>He pulls off Hickey’s cock and hangs his head, catching his breath. He can’t see the stain on his trousers, not in this dim light, but he feels the wetness spreading through the wool. His cock is erect, but the urge to come is lesser and more a nuisance, like a fly buzzing around his head. He sits back, watching as Hickey slides off the barrel and tucks himself back into his breeches.</p><p>When Tozer says nothing and makes no move to touch himself, Hickey tilts his head at him. He kneels before him, peering up at him through his lashes. With no shyness, Hickey reaches between his legs and cups him.</p><p>“What’s this?”</p><p>Tozer’s face burns, and he fully expects Hickey to recoil with disgust once he feels that he’s wet himself. He only pauses, glancing at Tozer’s face before removing his hand. He is neither smiling nor frowning when he smells the back of his hand, and then—eyes locking with Tozer’s again—he licks the taste from the pads of his fingers.</p><p>Tozer nearly comes then and there, at the delectably erotic sight of that pink tongue poking from Hickey’s lips, lapping at his hand as though it were a sweetmeat. His other hand lodges itself between Tozer’s legs, squeezing hard enough to hurt. Tozer groans, rutting shamelessly against it. He holds Hickey’s shoulders to brace himself, and the last thing he sees before he closes his eyes is Hickey sliding his tongue between his fingers, watching him all the while.</p><p>He muffles his shout in Hickey’s jacket when he comes, and it is only Hickey’s arms propping him up that keeps Tozer from collapsing to the floor.</p><p>The silence grows large and vast between them. Faintly, Tozer can hear the thud of feet overhead, the tolling of the bell.</p><p>“I must say,” Hickey says, breaking the heavy silence between them at last. “You are full of surprises.”</p><p>He removes himself, standing with a grace that Tozer does not think he can muster himself at the moment.</p><p>Hickey’s eyes sparkle with devilish glee. “At least you Marines do your own laundry.”</p><p>He moves away, plucking the lantern from the floor. Tozer stays kneeling. Questions tumble through his mind, demands he wants to make of Hickey, of why he decided to lead him here on a false errand, why he touched Tozer and let Tozer touch him, when he had no shortage of friends, no shortage of men vying for his attention.</p><p>Hickey pinches Tozer’s jacket off the barrel and tosses it at him before nimbly stepping around him toward the door. He digs in his pocket for a cigarette, holding it between his teeth as he shoots another glance at Tozer, a canine glinting when he gives him a lopsided grin, a look much less polished and much more dangerous than Tozer has ever seen on the man.</p><p>It’s a face that will haunt him for weeks to come.</p><p>“Let’s do this again sometime, sergeant,” he says, leaving Tozer to his thoughts.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Written especially for TomBowline!! I hope you enjoy ❤️ I also have an overall Thing for Tozer, so I couldn't resist having all of this fic from his POV. I was also eyeballing that Hickey/Irving repressed sex prompt because that is equally delicious, but alas, I ran out of time. :') </p><p>&amp; bless all the good folks who came up with the 'shame edward little power hour' tag. I couldn't help but borrow it for this fic lmao</p></blockquote></div></div>
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